


Red Rose Hall

by oneinspats



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Christmas fic, Gen, M/M, character death cause shit like that happens, what lurks in the snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The above mentioned characters are back in England heading to the old Norrington manor in order to retrieve a much needed map. While there they get snowed in and strange things begin to happen. Oh, and Mercer and Beckett spend most of their time there helping themselves to Norrington's extensive liquor collection.</p>
<p>Written for a Live Journal Christmas fix prompt "What lurks in the snow".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here there be Dragons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cassiopaya](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cassiopaya).



> It's really just my excuse to write Mercer and Beckett drunk. And taking the piss out of everyone. Also, I know cheese on toast didn't exist back then, or most likely didn't exist, but I don't really give a flying fuck now do I?  
> It's Disney - historical accuracy died a slow painful death years ago.  
> Also. Parts of this are pretty puny if I do say so myself.

There is a forest they are riding alongside. It's night, he can see his breath, frost is forming on the ground. There is a forest next to them, looming darkness and shadows. He shifts in his saddle, pulls cloak around himself but the chill is eating away at his skin. His lips feel thick, his jaw hurts and he knows if he tries to speak he will slur his words as his mouth refuses to work. The forest next to them seems darker, seems thicker, oozing the black of this winter night over them. It hits him, the contrast, here and Jamaica, here and Tortuga, here and everything that is the Caribbean. Here there is cold, there is frost, he can smell snow in the air, it is a wicked sharp humidity that seeps past wool and fleece. Here it is a sterile night, there is no noise, no crickets, lizards, animals crying out in a midnight thrall. Here it is cold. It is silent. There will be snow, and it will be thick and deep and beautifully pure white.

His master rides ahead of him, white horse blending into white ground. They seem to connect, he and his master, so the younger turns around as he trots up. Master is pale like England and he, himself, is dark like England. Sometimes, when he can't sleep, he thinks that they look like England. Opposite halves of the same damned, bloody, country. His master, whom he thinks of as Sir, looks at him, seems to guess something and shakes his head. 'No,' he says. Oxford accent. It's crisp, sharp, and his vowels are something to behold. 'If you give me one more blasted fable from your blasted northern family I'm going to hit you.'

'I wasn't going to give you a blasted fable from my blasted northern family, sir. I was merely going to offer you my coat.'

Sir laughs, it gets caught in his throat so he coughs instead. There are three more men ahead of them: Norrington, Governor Swann, and Barbossa. A woman, Elizabeth Swann, rides behind. It is a silent ride, across the midlands. Silent and still and dark and there is this forest next to them. And yes, yes it reminds him of stories from his family, yes it reminds him of things that are best left on their own (a lesson Sir has never learned and never will learn, no matter how hard he tries to teach it to the younger one), and yes, yes, it was the only thing really that could instil anything close to fear in him. The dark. He had told Sir once, when you're in the dark you are alone.

 

  
They arrive at Red Rose Hall, the young Admiral Norrington says, 'Please excuse the name, my ancestors enjoyed the dramatic.' The bare minimum of staff are present and only two appear to great the guests, take coats and hats, and offer excuses of – we didn't know Master James would be here. If we had known, sir, if we had known...

'It's of no matter,' Norrington brushes it off. 'We are only here for one night. Please, see that rooms are made up for my guests.'

The butler and maid bow. There is a quick glance about the group and Beckett could feel their analysis of each member. They linger the longest on Barbossa, the only one of the present pirates who still has the appearance of a pirate. Miss Swann, he had noted, at least had the presence of mind to change in London.

'We can have supper ready in an hour,' the butler says. He gives another bow before disappearing down the hall.

Norrington leads them through the entrance hall into a long corridor, 'I'll give a quick tour, though my apologies that the house isn't open. It's ah, it's quite something when it is. We're in the statue gallery at the moment. My great grand father was an art collector.' They moved through, peering at looming shapes and twisted marble forms. Occasionally Governor Swann ooed or ahed, gave a pointed look at his daughter, and moved on. 'We'll take drinks in the music room, it'll be the warmest room once we have a fire going.'

 

 

The walls are a dark green with uncovered wooden floors. The green was appalling and the wood too light for the room. Around the room hung various paintings, mostly seventeenth century and of mediocre quality. The servants had been in to dust and put the furniture in order. Elizabeth took a seat with a sigh, finally feeling some sensations flood back into her fingers and legs. The rest of the group sits with equal exhaustion and relief, admiring the room, the fire, and the warm drinks being poured for them. Norrington explains that he only has bitters, scotch (of dubious ancestry), and gin. Mercer opts for gin and Beckett tells him to stop making the liquor his primary diet.

'I can't very well drink the water in London, now can I, sir?'

'We're not in London, Mr. Mercer.'

'Don't matter much.'

There is a brief glare between the two before Beckett sighs, asks the name of the scotch, hears it, and opts for the gin as well.

They sit in silence, the six of them. Even the fire appears to have gone mum. At one point the governor doses off in his chair before Mercer kicks him in the shin. He wakes with a start, spills his drink, tells Beckett to teach his pet monster manners. Beckett shrugs and says Mr Mercer is more entertaining when he misbehaves.

Then there is silence again. Barbossa grins, 'well, I say this is awkward, isn't it?'

The meal is a simple affair. A watery soup everyone declares delicious. Mercer leans in to Sir, 'I've tasted better in sweat shops'. The wine is poured and no one stands to make a toast, though the governor is the only one who seems to notice. Sir leans in to Mr Mercer, 'I'm sure the sweat shops had better wine, too.' 

The meat and vegetables are soon brought in and choice pieces given to Miss Swann and her father. The rest is passed out in a half hazard manner to those remaining, with Norrington ensuring that Beckett received the worst piece. Or so Beckett is convinced as he nibbles on yet another bit of gristle. He mutters that it's unfair that his clerk receives a better piece than he does. Mr Mercer offers to trade. A belated fish arrives at the table, cut and served. Barbossa pokes it with his knife, frowns, leans across to Mercer.

'D'ye know fish this purports to be?'

The clerk shrugs, 'I was attempting to figure that out myself.' He takes a bite. 'Well, it's not alive.'

'I hope not.'

'Never been to Japan, then.'

The plates were soon removed and a desert tray appeared with preserves and tartlets. More wine was poured with promise of stronger spirits later.

'I think there is port in the library, I'll send Thompson to take a look.' Norrington explains as they slip from the dining room back to the music room. 'We might also have a bit of whiskey if anyone is interested.'

'Whiskey would be simply divine,' Barbossa leers with a mock bow. 'And after that I would like to see this map ye have. To satisfy me own curiosity, savvy?'

'Of course, I'll bring it down from the study.' Norrington made to leave but is caught by the pirate. Oh no, oh no, the little Admiral will take us all along, savvy? None of us here trust each other, we all want to make sure we're playing fair.

 

 

The library looks as all fine old libraries ought to look. Dark wooden panelling, old portraits of deceased relatives staring down, looming backs of old chairs. And shadows. And dust. And a creeping feeling of being watched. Beckett coughs as dust flies up when the map is spread out on the desk. It is beautiful vellum, well aged and no longer the once clear white. Norrington says, look if I hold it to the light you can see where the spine had been.

'Striation.' Beckett gives the word and sneezes. 'Now what good will this map do us in the Caribbean?'

'There are worlds within worlds. Sparrow says he wants to find the fountain of youth, it's on this map. Or my grandfather said it was. He said that you have to take the course of the dead, go to where they go, and then you will come to this place and here,' his finger lingers on one of the islands. 'Here is the fountain of youth.'

Elizabeth is looking at the map with care, she is fingering the old inscriptions in a handwriting she cannot make out. 'What does it say?' She asks. Norrington shrugs. He says he cannot read it, Latin most likely if one could make out the handwriting. It was made in the ninth century. Ordered by the Emperor Charlemagne on the even of his coronation. They say that the first words were written at midnight on eve of the birth of Christ. We keep it in the dark and away from the damp and the heat.

'We'll need to transport it carefully, especially back to Jamaica and only open it away from the sunlight. But, I think this will get us there.'

Barbossa finishes his drink, slams the glass on the table and says, 'so we bloody well traveled this far north to dirty England for this. It doesn't take six people to collect a map.'

Norrington shrugs, says half of them came along because they didn't trust each other, and the other half came because there was nothing better to do.

'I have plenty of things I could be doing in Jamaica,' Mercer clarifies. 'But apparently most of you don't want Sparrow dead.'

'Talk to me when we're back in the warm waters,' Barbossa says. 'But as it is, I'm knackered. I'll be seeing all of yer ugly faces in the morning.'

'We'll ride back tomorrow,' Norrington says. 'Catch a ship from London then make our way to Tortuga.'

The group disperses in the hallway, drifting through old walls and over old floors. There is wind picking up and outside it is snowing.

 

 

Mercer wakes and finds Sir crawling into the bed. He thinks it's certainly big enough for both, but this isn't like Sir. Sir likes to sleep alone. There is stillness in the night air. He can see shadows moving on the walls, tree branches blocking moonlight. They are gnarled and grasping, reaching into the safety of the room.

'Couldn't sleep, too cold.' It's a muffled excuse. He feels Sir shift closer. 'Easier to keep warm if there are two people sharing a cover.'

'Sir,' he acknowledges, moves to look at the younger man. There are dapples of grey covering both their faces. Mercer had tried to close the curtains but they had not budged and so he had left them. Now he wishes he hadn't, he wishes he didn't see Sir's expression. It's an expression he has never seen before and never wants to see again. It's something like fear.

'Your face,' Sir says suddenly. 'It was once perfect symmetry.' He pauses. He is looking for something and Mercer can do well enough at holding his master's gaze. 'I prefer it this way.'

'Whatt, sir? Broken symmetry?'

More fitting.' He shifts closer, it's warmer this way. There is a choked laugh as he says, 'it wouldn't do for my pet monster to have a pretty face. Don't you think?' He hums a bit, he is tasting the words Mercer can tell. The older man remains still and watching. Sir has darkish eyes at night, they remind him of himself. 'Pet. It's funny, I've never thought of you as such though it's an apt description. Christ you can hold a poker face.'

'You're drunk, Sir.'

'Maybe. It's irrelevant, either way.' Sir pets Mercer's hair, says that he ought to come up with a pet name for him. 'Mr Mercer' just isn't cute enough. 'Do you even have a Christian name?'

'Could do.'

'Fine, play that game.' A huff, Sir settles back down under the sheets. 'I cannot wait to leave tomorrow. I don't much care for this house.'

Mercer smiles into the darkness, Sir looks confused. There are shadows moving across the walls. 'I don't much care for this place either, sir.'

 

 

Breakfast is a tense affair. Elizabeth can almost feel the sparks in the air, ready for the slightest hint to flare into something big. There are fried eggs on her plate, a depressed tomato and soupy mushrooms. She looks across the table to her father who shrugs in resignation.

'Is this blood pudding?' He asks as he pokes a lump of something black on his plate. Norrington blinks, looks at the black mass on his plate for the first time and shrugs. Beckett ignores them. Barbossa just laughs and Mr Mercer says 'I hope so.' And eats it.

Snow is piled up against windows and one of the maids steps in to whisper something to Norrington. He nods, sends her off, says another pot of tea would be lovely. Beckett suppresses a shiver as he nibbles at the toast. There are preserves in front of him but Mercer said he wouldn't touch them.

'I think they've fermented, sir,' he murmurs. Beckett scowls, well that's just lovely. 'Didn't know jams could ferment.'

'They theoretically don't have time to. Tell me, Admiral,' the lord smiles as Norrington winces. 'When was the last time anyone stayed here for any length of time?'

'We came when I was young, but I haven't been here in over twenty years.'

'Quite.' Beckett pauses, butters another piece of toast. 'When are we leaving today?'

There are glances to the window, to the Admiral, to the two members of staff present. Norrington manages to look annoyed and says, About that. We're a bit snowed in.

'Not to quibble, Admiral,' Beckett all but purrs. 'But one cannot be a 'bit' snowed in. Either we are snowed in or we aren't.'

Norrington blinks, turns to the governor and says with an Irish whisper, God I hate that man.

Barbossa and Norrington disappear after breakfast to the music room to play cards and get drunk. 'Not much else to do,' the younger man had said with a sheepish look towards the disapproving governor. Elizabeth soon followed them and Beckett was contemplating the choice between whiskey or gin.

'Apparently there's a life time supply of the stuff in the cellar,' he says to Mr Mercer who nods. 'Gin, that is. Lord only knows why.'

'It's all right, sir. I don't understand your aversion, personally.'

'Yes, well. I suppose I don't enjoy drinking pine trees.' They're wandering up halls and around corners, chasing away shadows with dim candles. The governor is trailing behind and Beckett wants to tell him to shove off, that he wants to be alone and yes having Mr Mercer around still counts as being alone. Instead he let's it go, there are windows on the first floor and he is amazed to see that the snow has reached all the way to them. It's going to be a while, he knows. Best keep on good terms with at least a few of the people present. 'Besides, I always get the worst headaches from it.'

'Fir enough, sir.'

'Oh lord, don't start that.'

'Wot, sir?'

'Puning.'

'Wouldn't be me, sir. Why wood you suggest it?'

'Times when I wonder why I don't fire you.'

'I may be going out on a limb, sir, but I think you like it.'

Behind them Swann is laughing, softly. He says that they're quite good, that he would ash fir more if the lord didn't object. Beckett stops, turns around and scowls. No. Not you. Mr Mercer I can tolerate. But you, no. Swann is about to say something, he is rallying himself, pulling up his height but then there is a breeze. They stop, the candles are out and Mercer frowns, funny that, sir. Windows aren't open.

Something brushes past Beckett's neck. He freezes, not sure if it was skin or fur or feathers. His mind, stupidly, thinks – oh, you could have made a pun. From the dim, barely there light of the sun, he can see Mercer. The expression on the older man's face is one of uncertainty. Right, Beckett remembers. I have an assassin who is afraid of the dark.

Governor Swann moves closer, his shoes tap on the tiles. 'Did someone just breath on my back.'

They both shake their heads, no. At least, it wasn't us.

Mercer shifts closer to Beckett, his eyes searching shadows but not seeing anything. 'There's something out there,' he mutters, 'I can see shadows in the shadows.'

'What is doing?'

'Can't say for sure, sir, but I think we're being hunted.'

There is a harsh whispered 'oh my sweet Jesus' from the governor. Then a breeze. Then whispers against cheeks, back of necks, over the palm of hands. Beckett's mind is screaming – do something, do something, do something. But his body is frozen. Somehow a part of him is rationalising the frozen movement saying – maybe if I don't move, it won't see me.

'Right,' Mercer is clutching his hand, yanking him back into the present. The older man's voice is a whisper, soft and against his ear. Warmer, than the other whispers. More human in the way that they weren't. 'When I say to, we're going to run back to the music room. Run like the hounds of hell are behind you.' He is looking around them, avid and eager. Beckett remembers that this is a man who has always enjoyed the hunt, regardless of what end of the metaphorical gun he is on. 'Do you know the basic rule of survival, sir?'

'Stick it with the pointy end?'

'No, the other one.'

'Keep your powder dry?'

'The other one.'

'Respect the power before it goes out?'

'No.'

'I'm afraid you will have to tell me, Mr Mercer. Preferably before we die.'

'Key to survival, sir, is always being able to outrun at least one person.'

They both look to governor Swann. It takes him a moment to catch the other man's meaning and when he does they are already halfway down the hall.

 

 

Elizabeth sits with her back to the two men, her eyes are on the snow which is still falling. Half the window is covered but she can see, faintly in the distance, the tips of trees sticking out from the white sea. When she stares long enough she thinks she sees things moving. White on white.

'It's the same that happens at sea,' Barbossa explains when she mentions it. 'Ye stare at the horizon then ye begin ta think ye see things that aren't there. When that happens, they say the end is near. And, check.'

Norrington curses, moves a knight, says Fuck I'm too drunk for this. Barbossa laughs, moves his last pawn. Elizabeth stares out the window, the sun is weak and there are long shadows. Shadows that come from no where. She frowns, says, Hector come here please.

'What is it, princess?' The sneer she ignores, she points to the horizon.

'Look at the forest there, watch it for a few minutes, you'll see them.'

'See what?'

'I don't know, something.'

A moment passes and Norrington joins them, tipsily staring at the blurring trees. He says he doesn't see anything, turns and sits back down with a sigh. The pirate is frowning, he glances to Elizabeth then back to the trees. Then, there is a shift. A slithering darkness.

The door slams open and Beckett is almost tossed into the room quickly followed by his clerk who slams the door and shoves a chair under the handle.

'What in the-' Norrington growls.

'Something out there,' the lord pants. 'Was chasing us. I couldn't see it but I could feel it.'

Mercer says nothing. Just takes a blanket and shoves it against the crack in the door. He is shaking, Barbossa can see. Mr Mercer never shakes.

'Stop this,' the admiral is on his feet and remarkably sober. Beckett's reply is a glare. 'I'm not in the mood to have the piss taken out of me so you two can sod off. And second, we've barely been here for two days, cabin fever can't have set in yet.'

'Sets in quicker when you're around idiots.'

'Lord Beckett, I'd appreciate it, at least while under my roof, that you at least pretend to respect me.'

'Problem, wit' that,' Mercer says. 'I don't think this is your roof anymore.'

There is a laugh from Beckett, 'and here we go with ye olde stories.'

'Oh shove off, sir.'

'Would if I could.'

' _Gentlemen._ ' The group startles, turns to Elizabeth. 'Please. This is ridiculous. James is right, we're all just tired and cooped up with the wrong people. A walk would do us all good. And we can find my father since you seemed to have left him in your haste.'

Mercer and Beckett exchange looks, the lord shifts back towards his clerk. Their heads bow together for a moment before Beckett straightens, clears his throat, his eyes are distant and remind Elizabeth of old memories of England. 'About that, Miss Swann. We're not sure where he is.'

'Actually, we're not sure if he _is_.'

She frowns, uncertain, she thinks in the back of her mind – the clerk's smile reminds me of the wolf in a fairy tale I once heard.

 

 

In the colonies there are stories that the natives tell. There is one that comes from the north in short gasps and whispers and glancing looks. From the fragments one hears of a creature of the snow and night. It is alone, born alone, lives alone, hunts alone. And it is bound to the cold north ward wind, its eyes are the colour of the northern lights. I have never seen them, the northern lights. But the natives speak of them. Say if you walk north long enough you can see them and they will drive you mad with beauty and silence.

In the colonies winters are silent. They are long and hard and lonely. White on white on white with grey and black mingled in as sleeping trees and wary animals. But with all of that there is never a sound. The waling of winter winds. The breaking of ice, sharp and hard. Yet for all that it is silent. Silence drive men to madness. The beauty of it all drives men to madness.

These shards of whispers that the southern natives tell, they are stories told to them by northerners. They tell of a creature that stalks the snow at night. It preys on those who are foolish enough to venture out to hunt at night alone. It devours them, blood, flesh, bone, and marrow. When the creature finds you, it is dark, always dark, and the only light that can be seen are its northern-light eyes, its wolfish, cold smile.

 

 

The halls are cold and the five of them are chatting about everything and nothing. Barbossa is telling bawdy stories of his youth. Some with names they know, most with names they've never heard of. He says. 'I remember when I was a lad in Charleston. I saw a hanging, a pirate ye know. Old Blackbeard. Hanged till dead he was. Ye know, it was the first time I had seen those fancy scaffolds. With the traps.' His hand does the motion of a trap door dropping. 'First time I saw a man snap his neck that way.'

'Oh, we've had those in London for a while now,' Beckett is musing it more than saying it. He is staying close to Mercer. Elizabeth had heard him say, as they left the music room, that he was just tired. That he hadn't slept well. Mercer had said, it's all right, sir. I understand. 'Weren't you in the colonies, Mr Mercer?' It's an honest question.

'For a while, sir. Some years ago. Up in Massachusetts, in a town outside Boston.'

'Anything exciting happen?'

'A few hangings, though none so fancy as wot they had in Charleston. Small town, sir. Climb up the ladder and push them off. The usual way.'

'What were you doing there?'

'Business, sir. Then got a bit caught up. The trials were a right riot. People screaming, speaking in tongues, rolling all about, saying witches were possessing them. Bloody mad they all were.'

Norrington laughs and says – so you'll believe in Davy Jones but not witches?

'Davy Jones I've seen, Admiral.' The older man replies simply. 'I haven't seen a witch. Or not to my satisfaction. The way I see it, if the devil is truly helping them and giving them all these powers, why do they die with such ease?'

'Devil is the father of lies.'

'Never seen him, either.'

'You're not a sectarian are you?'

Mercer shrugs, says he never paid much mind to all of that. And oh, I think this is where our candles went out. They look about, eyes searching shadows, tracing over soft edges of furniture hiding away. There are layers of dust filling noses and lungs, coating over eyes. Elizabeth thinks – this house was once alive. I wonder why they've put it to sleep. It's beautiful.

'Governor Swann?' Norrington calls out. The air feels dense. 'Governor? Are you all right?'

'Father?'

There is no reply. There is darkness. There is snow outside and a setting sun. Barbossa frowns and says that it doesn't feel right.

'Father?' Elizabeth calls again. She walks a ways from the group, down the hall. Her candle flickers, flickers, blows out. Mercer notices it first, grabs Beckett's wrist and nods down to the black hall.

'Miss Swann?' There is no reply. 'Miss Swann?' It's a bit louder. The others notice her absence and Norrington is concerned for the first time in the evening.

'Elizabeth?' He calls.

'What is it? I'm fine.' Her voice is farther down the hall. 'Come on, it's not too bad. And I need to light my candle again.'

Mercer frowns, it doesn't feel right, Sir. He murmurs it to his master, head ducked against Beckett's. 'I think we best stay together.'

'Oh good lord, there's nothing there,' Norrington mutters as he walks ahead. Barbossa glances between the admiral's retreating back and the two men behind him.

'I'm staying with you two,' he decides. 'Are we going after them?'

A brief exchange of looks, Mercer shrugs. Beckett sighs, 'might as well.'

They walk, following Norrington, watching as the walls become a soft red with the dying sun. Ahead is Elizabeth standing by one of the windows, her dress is a light blue, her hair looks black, her skin a pale white but glowing red.

'Took you long enough,' she laughs as they cautiously approach. 'I swear you lot are the most fearful people I've ever met.'

'I'd like to point out, Miss Swann, that we still haven't found your father.' Beckett knows he sounds petulant, he decides he doesn't care.

'And I'd like to point out that I'm sure he just got lost and you two are both nitwits.'

Beckett shrugs, unaffected. Mercer, she thinks, needs to discover more facial expressions than the three he appears to know how to use. She mentions this and Beckett replies for him, Oh Mr Mercer knows plenty.

The group turns and heads down another hall, plunging back into the dust and shadows, away from the dying day. The arches above the doors have green men carved into the wood. Vines winding around the disembodied head, a noose of regrowth.

Barbossa hums a poem, Old, Old Jötunn, moves from the south, with the scathe of branches 'round his hair, his fair body 'twined about, and there shines from his sword, the three suns of Gods of the slain. 

Occasionally there is a call for Governor Swann, or father, or Wetherby, or sir, or You Bumbling Oaf of a Governor. All that answered was silence. Silence and a creeping cold. Norrington says Christ, it's cold, shall we go back to the music room? He might be there, you know. Ships passing in the night.

The music room is empty when they return. There are covered dishes on the side board and a maid appears to say that if they wish they could eat in the dining hall. The admiral waves her away and says they'll look after themselves tonight, thank you. And, you haven't seen the governor have you? Older man, grey hair, fancy coat, a bit absent minded.

'No, m'lord, haven't seen him in at least six hours. Shall we send out a search for him, m'lord? Sometimes the house-' She shrugs. Looks elsewhere than Norrington's face.

'What about the house?'

'It's big, m'lord. Sometimes people get lost is all.'

 

 

The moon is glinting off snow and clouds drift softly away. Sir is walking along admiring the winter sky, he stops, Mercer pauses a short distance away. Sir is looking up and counting under his breath, he asks – Mr Mercer, how well do you know your stars?

'Not well, sir.'

The younger man gives a quarter-moon sliver of a smile. His face is pale, pale, pale white and Mercer wonders how he can keep that colour even after being in Jamaica. Sir's lips are a thin line, his face is round, his eyes some colour no one bothers to make note of. Or when they do it's inevitably wrong the next time they care to look.

'Did anyone think to check the governor's room, I wonder.' Sir is wandering off down the hall as he says it. Mercer watches for a space then trails after. He might have replied, he can't remember, and he knows Sir doesn't care. 'Did you share a bed as a boy?'

'Yes, sir. With my brother.'

'And how is your brother?'

'Dead, sir.'

'Shame.'

'Couldn't say, sir. Think he wanted to die by the end.'

Sir pauses in front of a door, he looks to Mercer. 'Is this it?' He knocks. There is sound from inside. A scraping of wood across the floor, something shuffling along.

'Who is it?' The governor calls from inside.

'Lord Beckett.'

Silence. Mercer can feel the governor contemplating his response. A minute passes and Sir is annoyed and about to leave when the door opens. 'Are you alone?'

'Yes, at least I think we are.'

'We? Who's with you?'

'Mr Mercer. You're alive.'

The door opens more and Mercer can see the older man is holding a poker. Stupid man, he thinks. Then unthinks it. The governor's clothes are shredded. Sir takes it all in but doesn't comment. Sir is polite that way. Too well bred, Mercer sometimes thinks.

'Whatever it was followed me,' Swann says with a shaky voice. His hands are unsteady and he keeps smoothing out the frays of his waistcoat. 'I got lost, came back here. Can they get under doors?'

Mercer shrugs, looks beyond the governor into his room. There are candles lining the walls. The man follows his gaze and gives a laugh and a shrug.

'Can't be too careful, eh?' He offers. Mercer is non-committal.

'I think there's more than one,' Sir says after a moment of thought. 'I'm pretty sure something followed us as well.'

'Could be, sir. Could be we were just over reacting as well.'

Sir owns this to be true, then adds that one can never be too careful, though. Bit difficult, he says. When you can't see the buggers, isn't it?

 

 

That night Sir leaves a candle burning on the bedside table. There is one on the desk as well. 'If they put out the lights doesn't that mean they don't like them?'

'Yes, sir. It also means they can put them out which makes it rather fruitless.' Mercer replies and Sir is burrowing down into the covers.

'It's too cold.'

'Shall I make a fire, sir? I think there's wood in the room.'

Sir shakes his head, no, no. Stay. It's warmer with two under the covers. Tell me, Mr Mercer, do you think it's real? Whatever it is we think we're seeing?

'Could be, sir. The governor's clothes were real enough.'

'True.' A beat. A pause. Sir's eyes are open and his face once again the painful uncertainty. Mercer wishes Sir would sleep elsewhere. He doesn't like seeing Sir at night, uncertain and afraid. He's never been good with that sort of situation. Or this sort, with Sir finding words and looking cold and distant but afraid all the same. 'What if it comes back whilst we're asleep?'

'I'll stay awake, sir.'

'All night?' The skepticism is evident. Mercer ignores it.

'All night.'

 

 

'What I have a problem with,' Mercer and Barbossa are sitting by a window in the music room the next morning. Norrington is asleep on the settee and governor Swann is looking worse for wear. Mercer looks around, finds Sir dozing with a book open in hand. Elizabeth is staring at the fire, occasionally dropping her gaze to the book in her lap but not reading. On the table is the map. It's open and he wonders what would happen if he stole it, grabbed Sir, then broke open a window and ran into the waist deep snow. Not get very far, was the answer.

'What d'ye 'ave a problem wit'?'

'This situation. I can handle undead sea-food creatures wit' still beating hearts in chests. I'm fine wit' skeleton pirate armies and lost chests of cursed gold. I can handle myself when fighting mermaids and Indians and pirates and dragons and whatever else is there. It's this inability to see what I'm facing.'

Barbossa nods, he downs his whiskey, pours himself another one. 'I know what ye mean. This whole business reeks of something fishy.'

'Sir clammed up last night. 'though I don't want to tuna this into something bigger than it is.'

There was a groan that sounded suspiciously like a 'No!' from the Sir in question. The pirate chuckled into his drink, I see ye both get on well.

'I like things I can stab, I think is what I'm getting at,' Mercer says it to the window more than Barbossa. 'I don't like it when it's invisible. When it could be behind you, or in a shadowed corner, under a chair, a desk. When you are alone in a room and it feels like something might be watching you and you don't know if it is or if it's just your mind playing tricks.'

Barbossa holds up a hand, shaking his head. Oh no, Oh no. 'I'm paranoid enough, don't need ye adding ta it.'

 

 

In the main hall there is a painting of Christ the redeemer. He is holding his cross and showing his wounds to the invisible audience. There is blood trickling from the five, trailing over limbs and pale flesh to finally fall into a cup sitting on the ground. Behind Him there is a carving of an Ancient performing a sacrifice. The bull's eyes are wild, its head is thrown back and mouth open with a silent braying scream. Blood is flowing from its wounds and into a carved up on a carved alter. Beside the Ancient is a satyr playing a double flute. There are vines and weeds growing up around the creature's feet. Behind the Christ and the Carving is a wild, untamed landscape. It looks cold, unforgiving, animalistic.

Governor Swann is surveying the painting with Norrington. They stand with candles in hand and an early morning light at their back. The older man says – it looks so barren, so wild. The countryside behind Him.

'We are doing our best to tame it, the land. Bring civilisation to those who do not have it.'

Governor Swann nods in agreement. There is silence as they stare at the painting and Christ's pale, dead eyes stare back. The satyr is laughing. The Ancient is smiling. The land scape is _alive_. 

 

 

'Remind me again, Mr Mercer, why we are here.' Beckett is sprawled on the floor in front of the fire in the music room. Mercer is propped up against a leg of the settee, between them is an empty bottle of gin.

'Hmm...maps, sir.'

'Right. Um. Sparrow has that compass thingie. Use that shit.'

'Sir...we did? I think. Maybe. Barbarosa, barboa, the pirate knows.'

Beckett rolls to his side, frowns as the world spins. Mercer watches him with a bored expression.

'Thing is. I don't want to die. Mr Mercer I order you to not make me die.'

'I wasn't going to make you die, sir.'

'Wasn't saying you were. Was I? Fuck I'm drunk.'

'Yes.'

The door behind them opens, Mercer feels his head loll in the direction, eyes focusing on the empty hall.

'Sir, are we too drunk to run really fast to another room.'

Beckett sits up, blearily stares forward. His eyes are on the open door for a full minute before comprehension dawns. His head rolls to the side.

'This, this here, is why I don't get drunk in possessed houses.'

'I'll take that as a yes.'

 

 

The door to Elizabeth's room creaks open, a fraction, then another fraction, then another. She watches it, sitting on the bed with a fire poker in hand. The only memory she has of her mother is vague. It smells of lilacs and looks like a willow tree and feels cool but not cold. Her mother had said that a young lady always must be prepared for all possible situations. Elizabeth thinks that while her mother had meant something about handkerchiefs and perfume and hair pins, the general sense of the advise had been very good.

The hallway beyond the door is dark and she has only one candle in the room. She realises as she stares forward that she hasn't seen any staff in the past twelve hours. Maybe they know about this, she thinks. They must know. And maybe they know how to make it stop.

The door is all the way open. She tenses up, bracing for something though she doesn't know what. A part of her brain, sounding suspiciously like that clerk Lord Beckett has, is telling her that fire-pokers do little good against things you can't see.

A moment passes. The room feels warmer, too warm. The fire place is empty and all she wants to do is curl up under the covers because maybe if she can't see it whatever it is can't see her. It had always made her feel better, as a girl, to hide any and all limbs under the sheets when she was frightened of the dark. But now. Now she sits and sees nothing but swears to the angels above that there is _something there in the room with her ohdeargod._

A shape moves, shifts forward, leans against the door. There are two of them. Shapes. A second then she glares.

'Next time don't bloody scare me,' she growls.

Beckett frowns. 'What do you mean, madam?'

'Don't open my door then hide.'

His clerk looks over to his lord then back to her. 'Think sir means, that is we didn't open the bloody door.' He stares at her. It's unnerving. She glares back. He says, 'you know fire pokers do little good against things you can't see.'

'Get out.'

Beckett shakes his head, slowly, blinking as he does it. 'No. No. Bad idea.'

'Are you drunk?'

'Maybe. A little.'

Mercer nods in agreement, he sways a bit, holding onto the door frame. 'That was mistake number one,' he says.

'And number two?'

'Not being able to find the kitchens to make cheese on toast. Oh. And evil ghost things.'

It's supper time and there's no food on the table. Norrington is grumbling under his breath and pulls the servant bell for a third time. Beckett is lounging, drinking some concoction Barbossa made from what was left in the liquor cabanet, and leaning against Mercer.

'Admiral, as a servant, I can safely vouch that repeatedly ringing the bells will not make anything happen faster. In fact it usually makes things slow down.'

Norrington glares at the clerk for a minute before giving the bell another defiant tug. They wait for another fifteen minutes before Barbossa says – bugger this all for a lark, I'm goin' ta go find the kitchens. Make meself somet'ing ta eat. Who's in?

Mercer pushes Beckett back into his chair and says he never did get his cheese on toast and wants it now. Beckett shrugs and declares his interest in seeing more than the five same rooms they've been in for the past two days.

'Besides, the servants might all be dead and we wouldn't know it. Mercer?'

'Sir?'

'Are you armed?'

A look.

'Yes, then. Very good.'

Another look.

'Oh stop looking at me like that.'

The look continues to look into the back of Beckett's head as they filed out after the pirate. A second later and those in the dinning room could hear faintly – if you don't stop looking at me like that I'm going to fire you. There is silence then – Not like I want to look at you, sir. You're just in front of me at the moment. Through it all Barbossa is laughing.


	2. The night is dark and full of terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some may have noticed a lot of Jurassic park references. That's due to a long and involved inside joke which includes (but is not limited to) velociraptors, Mr Mercer, cheese on toast, Gandalf, and Stick It With The Pointy End (and all that could possibly imply)

Barbossa trails along down a few halls before giving up lead to Beckett and Mercer – don't know these houses. He says. 'Ye'd 'ave better luck than me in findin' the kitchens.'   
      A tucked away staircase at the end of the hall leads them down into the servants' quarters. They feel their way along, candles having been blown out by a breeze coming up the stairs.   
      'Ghost?' Barbossa whispers. Beckett shakes his head, no, it's always cooler downstairs. Kitchen have stone slab floors, keep food fresh for longer, and with narrow halls the breezes are normal.   
      The quarters are quiet, empty, and dark. Rooms long abandoned have dust settled on sinking beds, fading curtains. Old candles, burned down and wax sealed to their holders. Mercer looks about, notes the butler's pantry then says, If this house was built with any sense the kitchens'll be this way. The only sound is their shoes on the tiled floors, they stop every so often, peek their heads into rooms. Pick up yellowing books, rifle through abandoned drawers.   
      'You married?' Beckett asks Barbossa as the silence becomes too much. Mercer is a few paces ahead of them, intent on something and Beckett reasons it's more than his drunk food-fix. There is a thick layer of dust everywhere, even on the floor, and no signs of life.   
      'Occasionally. I'm always on the look out for the new ex Mrs Barbossa.' A crude laugh and Beckett gives a weak smile. Eventually they come to a halt at the end of the hall, the walls had been painted an off-yellow but are now a more faded brown-yellow as the wood shows through thinning paint and stains linger, un-washed. Mercer pushes open the kitchen door, motions for them to stay. He ducks into the room, a knife sliding out of his boot as he disappears. Beckett waits for a minute before following him into the room.

 

      'Do you think we should have gone with them?' Governor Swann asks as he and Norrington pile through the clothes of the Admiral's late father. 'I don't think we should be separated.' A new shirt is handed to him, then waist coat and frock. Another minute of searching turns up a pair of breeches and stalkings.   
      'They'll be all right,' the younger man says with conviction. 'And if they're not, well they are my three least favourite people at the moment. I think those ought to fit you, there's a screen by the desk.'   
      The governor gives a bow of gratitude before going behind the chinese silk. Norrington sits on the bed, fingering the shreds of the governor's former coat. 'What happened, exactly?'   
      'Went dark,' the old shirt was tossed over. 'Our candles were blown out. Then it felt like something was breathing on my neck. But it was a cold breath. Not like a person, something else. And I think Lord Beckett felt it as well. He seemed frightened.' Breeches were tossed over to a corner. 'Next thing I know they're running down the hall, the clerk practically dragging Lord Beckett, and Beckett yelling at him to slow down. But in much ruder language.'   
      'Sounds about right for them.'   
      Governor Swann steps out and hands back the frock-coat, 'too small, but thank you for everything else.'   
      'My pleasure. And I ought to be the one apologising. It's my house that is apparently possessed.' He frowned. Flopped back on the bed and sighed. 'You know, I never believed in ghosts as a lad.'   
      'I never did either. Until yesterday. I have scratch marks from it,' the man took a seat on the edge of the bed. 'Three, down my back and another set on my arms.'   
      'Feels like a dream.' He looks over to Swann, motions for him to continue. 'What happened then, after they ran off?'   
      'I tried to follow, but it was dark. Too dark for the time of day. I must have gotten lost. I ended up in my room somehow, the door bared. I saw them again, later. Lord Beckett that is. Oh, I passed by the billiard room, and a study.'   
      A knock on the door brings Elizabeth in looking concerned. She lights another candle and says, something's happened, something's gone wrong. They should be back already.   
      Her father reaches out, pets her hand and smiles, 'it's just a delay, I'm sure they're fine.' She shakes her head, no. I'm going to get them back. You're right, father. We shouldn't be split up here. It's too dangerous.   
      Norrington sits back up, rolls his shoulders, feels the air the room shift. They all freeze. A candle blows out. Then another. Then another. Then it's dark.   
      'I think they're fine,' he whispers. 'It's us I'm worried about.'

 

 

      The kitchen smells when Barbossa follows Beckett in. There is a fire in the hearth and it's too warm. The scent of  _something_  hits him when he stands in the centre of the room. His stomach coils in on itself, his throat flexing, he tries not to gag. Beckett walks over with a spare handkerchief, he takes it with a nod and covers his mouth. A moment passes, he regains equilibrium. 'What the fuck happened in here?'   
      Mercer is kneeling at the other end of the room, there is a small pool of blood on the floor and nothing else. The walls are the same off yellow as the hallway and the room is shadowed. And empty. It occurs to Barbossa that he had never seen any other member of staff except the butler and the maid.  
      'I think this was the butler,' Mercer says, he holds up a piece of fabric from the pool. It's a cravat, was a cravat and shredded. Beckett is by the hearth, in it there is something burning in the too hot fire.  
      'I think this was too,' he mutters.   
      Barbossa wanders towards the icebox, it's empty. No meat, no bodies, nothing. 'Where's the maid?' He asks. No answer, he turns around and Mercer is looking concerned for the first time in days.   
      'Mr Mercer.' Beckett's voice is empty.   
      'Sir?'   
      'I don't think I need to sober up anymore.'   
      'Me neither, sir.' Mercer moves closer, he's trying to shake off the feeling of being watched. There's no one in the kitchen but them, that is evident. It is empty. Empty, empty, empty,  _empty_. 'We should go back up stairs,' he murmurs. Beckett and Barbossa nod, anxious. 'Now.'

 

      The halls seem longer in the night, and as always it's dark. They had tried lighting candles but they wouldn't stay lit. Norrington even tried putting one in a proper holder, with a glass box. It had flickered, grown long and thin, then went out. The glass had been charred. The candle refused to be lit.   
      'I hate living in a world lit by fire,' Norrington had muttered after it. 'When is someone going to invent something more reliable?'  
      They keep close to the windows for the light of the moon. It's pale and soft and beautiful. Elizabeth lingers for a moment by one, she looks out and can see the edge of the forest. An ink stain against a white horizon. She watches it, knowing that there's something watching her back. They're coming from the forest, she thinks. They must be. Houses don't breed demons on their own.   
      'Who says it's demons?' Norrington asks as he turns to look at her. His eyes are soft, they remind her of Jamaica and she wishes they wouldn't. The distance between them is miles, now. Miles and miles. She turns away, back to the snow. The foreign cold land that had never been her home. Her father had often spoken of England with fondness, he would smile something distant and say, it's a charming land. A tamed land. Patchwork quilt of stone walls. Old Roman roads. Apple trees. Sheep. So many sheep. The sun is gentle in England, the land is mild and welcoming, if a little distant.   
      She had asked, then, if her mother had loved England as much as he did. Her father had looked at her and not answered. Her governess later said, of course she did. Why do you think he's running away?   
      'Then what are they?' She finally asks as her father joins them by the windows.   
      'I have no idea.'   
      Voices are carrying down from a room at the end of the hall. The ball room, Norrington indicates. There's someone in there. They tread closer, feet somehow managing silence on wooden floors. Norrington motions for them to hang back, he approaches, gently opens the door and steps through.   
      'Jesus fuck, Admiral.' The pirate's voice is unmistakable. 'Warn a man next time.'   
      Elizabeth can't hear Norrington's reply, then there's another voice. Beckett's, lilting up and down on vowels and consonants.  
      'I think we're alone, now.' Beckett is saying when she and her father enter the room. 'The maid and the butler are,' he frowns. Shrugs. 'Gone, I suppose.'   
      'Gone?'   
      'We found blood, the butler's cravat, something meat-like burning in the fire place and nothing else.'   
      The admiral turns to Mercer, gives him a look that says, You're sensible in these matters, what the fuck happened to my servants?   
      The clerk glances to Beckett then back, 'no servant had been down there in months, if not years.'   
      'How do you know?'  
      'Beds were not touched, candles weren't replaced. They were burned low and left in the holders. It was too dusty, as well. If the maid wasn't tending to other parts of the house she would at least be expected to keep those quarters in a reasonable state.'   
      'And there was no food,' Barbossa chimed.   
      Silence. They are all distinctly not looking at each other.   
      Finally Norrington clears his throat, 'then what have we been eating?'   
      'I don't know,' Mercer says. Pauses. Then, 'but I do think we're the first living things in here in years. And admiral, why hasn't your family been back in so long?'   
      The younger man sighs. He looks at their faces, says he wishes he had more to tell them than – something happened my mother wouldn't speak of, my father disappeared, my cousin cannot speak anymore, and I know nothing about it. 'There was an old story,' he nods to the door. 'But we should go back to the music room. At least there's a fire there.'   
      He hears Mercer whisper to Beckett, 'that's what I don't get, sir. The fire in the kitchen, why?' Beckett murmurs back, 'maybe they didn't make it. Maybe the butler did.'   
      'That blood wasn't fresh.'   
      'The thing burning was.'

 

      The fire is low in the music room and Mercer begins a quest for wood, finding none he asks, 'which chairs are you least attached to?'   
      'All of them,' Norrington answers. 'But leave at least one or two.'   
      'Books, Admiral?'   
      'Oh lord, I'd rather you wouldn't.'   
      Mercer shrugs, picks up a dusty tomb, 'Fox's book of Martyrs,' he reads. 'This isn't rare, you can always get another copy.'   
      'The woodcuts in that one are unique.' It was more a whine than Norrington would have wished. He can feel the older man's blank stare.   
      'Fine,' Mercer rips out a few pages, crumples them up. 'I won't burn the pictures.' Beckett laughs, it's forced and a little manic. He says, I think, Mr Mercer, the admiral wanted to save that book. But never mind, now.

 

      They settle in around the fire, huddle close and watching as sparks pop around what used to be a beautifully carved chair. Outside the wind picks up, battering snow against the windows. Norrington moves to close the curtains but Barbossa stops him, 'I want to be able to see what's out there.'   
      The doors to the hall are closed, a chair wedged under them. Governor Swann had insisted, even when Elizabeth had said, father, I think that will be as useful as a fire poker.   
      'So, Admiral,' Beckett drawls. He's using Mercer as a back rest, the older man is facing the window having said that if Miss Swann is right, and they're coming from the forest, then it stands to reason at least one of us should watch it. 'Tell us the story.'  
      Norrington shifts closer to the fire, he stares at it for a moment, arranging thoughts. 'It was my mother, my cousin Mary, and my aunt Harriet. My father was there as well. They went up one summer, up here to visit and for shooting. I was eleven and left in town with my uncle. I don't remember why, I just remember they were supposed to be here for a month or two. My father was going to spend half his time up here and half in town. They went up and a week and a half later they came back down. My mother, Mary, and aunt Harriet. They said nothing for a few days. Then my mother sort of threw my father's coat at me, it was shredded but no blood. She said he wasn't coming back.   
      My cousin never spoke again. Ever. And my aunt Harriet just kept saying that it needs to be burned. That's all she said for three days, it needs to be burned, we must burn it down, burn it, burn it, burn it. And my mother, bless her, rallied around and told me that something had happened, that father was gone now, but don't worry, because we weren't going back so we'll be all right. I never heard anything more about it.'   
      They are silent. Beckett feels Mercer move, shifting weight. The clerk hisses softly, 'they're by the trees. I can see them moving.'  
      They all look out the window but it's shadows on snow and a stark, empty sky with a white moon. Mercer says, look into the shadows, don't look at them, look into them. There's something there.   
      'So, knowing this,' Barbossa chimes. 'Ye still thought it'd be a good idea ta come up here fer this map.'   
      'It was years ago, and I had sort of forgotten about it.'   
      Elizabeth curls her knees up to her chest, staring into the fire. 'Still remains a question,' she says softly. 'What are they?'   
      No one answers, Mercer mutters, more to Beckett than anyone, does it matter? We don't know how to kill them, so does it matter if we know what they are?  
      'Names are powerful,' Elizabeth says. 'They say if you know the name of a god and call it, they will come and you can see their face in the fire.'   
      'Voodoo,' Barbossa all but spits the word. 'I don't care for that sort o' thing. Can't be trusted.'   
      'But cursed aztec gold can be?'   
      'Different, Miss Swann. We didn't know it was cursed, now did we? And lots 'o things are cursed but not truly cursed. There be a place in Scotland, in the highlands and they say it be cursed. But I've been and it ain't. Aye, curses. They be an uncertain thing.'  
      Beckett nods in agreement. He is watching the fire and the door. Sometimes he thinks he can see something standing on the other side, its shadow against the bottom crack. At times he thinks it's what his mind wants him to see. 'What annoys me is that we live in a modern world. An age of technology and reason. This,' a vague hand motion to the room. 'This should be happening in the dark ages. Not here. Not now.'   
      'I still want ta know what we've been eating.' Barbossa says it absently. He plays with his cuff. 'No food in the kitchen at all.'  
      Governor Swann makes a noise, a cough caught in his throat. He declares he'd rather not think about it, thank you very much.  
      'I still want my cheese on toast,' Mercer sounds merose. Beckett nudges him and says, if you find a way to get us out of here alive I'll buy you all the cheese on toast in the world. And all the hot mustard you want. What else do you like to eat? 'Curry, sir. But that's hardly necessary, I only want one piece. Would you let me put a tomato on it?'   
      'Of course.'   
      'Then I might be tempted to find a solution, sir.'

 

      Food. That is the issue, Barbossa says. We need food. And damn if I'm going ta -   
      A knock on the music room door. They stop, stare at the door. Mercer is up a second later followed by Norrington and Barbossa.  
      The admiral clears his throat, 'yes?'   
      'Sir, I believe it's tea time.' The butler's voice came from the other side soft and gentle. Mercer motions to the crack under the door. No shadow, he mouths. No one moves.   
      'I think we'll pass on tea.'   
      'Sir, You haven't eaten recently. I'm worried.'   
      They exchange glances. The pirate shakes his head, no, no, no. Beckett is still seated on the floor by the fire, his hand is absently reaching for the poker. Elizabeth is doing the same.   
      'It's all right. We're fine. Thank you.'

A pause.

      'When shall I ready supper for, then?'   
      Barbossa is still shaking his head. Norrington moves a little closer to the door. 'I think we're all fine for the evening.'   
      'Sir, I must insist.' The voice is a little more rough. Mercer scowls, reaches for a knife. 'There is food that will go bad other wise.'  
      'Like hell,' Barbossa whispers. Governor Swann hisses – shush.   
      'It's all right, we'll eat tomorrow.'   
      Shifting on the other side of the door. Something shifting against – against the wood? They couldn't tell. There was a muffled, if you say so. Then gone.   
      No one spoke for a minute. Elizabeth finally says, 'what was  _that_?'

 

      An hour of quiet passes. Barbossa is playing rummy with Governor Swann and is in the lead. Mercer is napping, with head lolling on Beckett's shoulder. The lord is trying to do the same but finds himself staring out the window instead. Sometimes he thinks he sees movement in the snow, the shadows stretching long on white ground. Sometimes he thinks it's just his eyes playing tricks on him.   
      He remembers his old friend, Sam Taggart, saying that people always see human shapes and faces in things. He said he would wager his faith that the human brain likes to see faces in things. Why do you think we see so many faces of Christ and the Madonna in wood work and on toast? So Beckett wonders, watching the dark shift and move in the forest, if this is one of those cases. Where the mind is playing tricks, fooling them into thinking things were there when really it's nothing. Maybe a moving tree. A deer coming to the edge of the forest. An owl hiding in branches. The winter breeze kicking up snow.   
      Barbossa is the first to stir from the revere of cards playing. He says to the Governor, good game but I think we need ta do some'tin' about all this here.   
      He stands, 'I'm goin' ta go find supplies. Then we're leavin'. Hear me?'   
      'Supplies?” Norrington staggers up as well, knees stiff.   
      'Clothes, blankets, weapons maybe. I'm leavin'. Don't know about the rest of ye. If we stay, aye we'll be outta luck.'   
      'Don't you mean extinct?' Beckett says with a sneer.   
      'Aye, that too.' He pulls his sword out and carefully takes the chair away from the doors. 'If I'm not back in half an hour, come look for me.'   
      'And if we don't?' Norrington asks.   
      'Then fuck if I know.' He's gone through the door in seconds. It closes softly and the governor leaps to shove the chair back under handles. He gives a sheepish smile that says, just in case. You know? Doesn't hurt, does it?   
      Norrington sits down with a sigh, 'god help us,' he mutters. 'We're in the hands of a pirate.'

 

      Night has fully settled in when they finally decide they ought to search out Barbossa. It had been more than two hours and no one was keen on leaving the room. Mercer said something about his having done a fair share of “living dangerously” for the meantime. Elizabeth just said that the retrieval group needed to be more than one person, 'that's where we went wrong. We let him go on his own.'   
      'To be fair,' Norrington says. 'He didn't ask for company.'   
      'Still. We shouldn't be alone here.'   
      There is silence. Beckett mutters that he'd rather not die, thank you very much. Governor Swann just stares into the fire and Norrington fidgets with his coat. Elizabeth finally sighs and stands up, 'I can't wait anymore. Something went wrong. I'm going to go get Barbossa back.' Her father makes a noise of protest followed by Norrington.   
      'You can't just stroll down the hallway, you know,' Mercer says, picking up his sword. 'I'm going with you.'  
      'All right.'   
      Beckett glances at the clock, 'I'll give you forty five minutes.' Mercer nods, glances to Elizabeth who agrees. Norrington scowls, he says that he ought to be the one going and Mercer growls – oh shut up, and closes the door.

 

      The hall is quiet as they walk down. No wind against window panes, no floor boards settling into place. Mercer pauses for a moment, listens to the darkness but hears nothing. 'Stick to my heels,' he whispers. Elizabeth nods, her hands trembling as she pulls out a dagger.   
      'And don't shake like a leaf, you'll hurt yourself.'   
      She glares but doesn't respond. They move forward. They pass by the hall that leads to their rooms, then another hall. Then the doors to the ballroom when they hear a soft moan. A pause by the doors before Mercer pushes them slowly open. The room is dark, high windows covered with thick drapery blocks out the limited moon light. On the floor is Barbossa, seemingly unconscious. His leg is covered in blood and there are smears of it on the floor. Elizabeth runs over, kneeling down and inspecting the damage. Behind her Mercer follows the blood stains to the staircase leading down the servants quarters.   
      'You think it's coming from the forest, Miss Swann?' He asks as he glances down the darkened stair case.   
      'Yes. Though I suppose they could come from anywhere.'   
      'Hm, regardless, I think it must enter through the servants quarters. The blood trail goes off this way.'   
      She hums a response, looks back, 'I think he'll make it.'   
      Barbossa groans again, his eyes cracking open. He gives a manic smile, 'remind me,' he gasps. 'To thank Norrington for this lovely weekend.'   
      'Do we chance moving him?' She asks.   
      A breeze coasted through the room. Brushing up from the stair case past Mercer and around the two on the floor. Barbossa manages to prop himself up, 'Please chance it.'

 

 

      Beckett hears them before he sees them. Mercer's familiar boots on wood, the sound a person being dragged, Miss Swann's panting gasps of 'oh God, oh God, oh God'. He levers himself up and opens the door as the three burst in. Or, rather, Mercer and Elizabeth burst in dragging Barbossa behind them. Something moves in the shadows of the hall. Beckett doesn't stare for too long and quickly slams and locks the doors.   
      'It'd be worse if they figure out how to pick locks,' Mercer mutters as he leans over Barbossa's leg. 'Good, he put a tourniquet on it. Probably saved his life.' The wounded man gave a groan and attempted to sit up but was pushed back down. 'No, it'll do you no good to move about. Save the energy till you need it.'  
      'Which could be soon,' Norrington says as he strides over. He takes Elizabeth by her arms, looks at her closely. Are you hurt? Are you all right? Nothing got to you?  
      'No, no, I'm fine. We found him in the ballroom. He had a sack of food with him but was as you see.' She is shaken and takes a seat, looking around for the bag. Beckett frowns, he asks, Where did he find the food. Mercer looks up from the pirate's leg.   
      'Miss Swann, there was no bag. He didn't have a bag.'   
      She shakes her head. 'Yes he did. I found it when you went to the stairs to follow the blood. I swear I had it when we ran in here.'   
      The group grows still. Mercer stands up, pulls Beckett near him and mutters that he best not leave his side. The lord asks, are we following the first rule of survival? Be able to outrun at least one person? Mercer shakes his head. Too late for that, sir. They're in here and out there.   
      Someone screams when the lights are blown out. Beckett thinks it's Norrington, maybe Barbossa. Maybe the Governor. It was a man, regardless. Then Elizabeth screams, shrieks, cries out – Oh Jesus Fuck Me Bloody Holly Hell. Governor Swann says, Elizabeth, Elizabeth are you all right? And watch your language – oh dear.   
      Then there's silence. Beckett can feel Mercer's hand wrapped around his wrist. Or, at least, he hopes it's Mercer's hand. He's pulled forward, there's a curse under him from Barbossa.   
      'Sorry,' he mutters.   
      'S'was my bloody hand ye tosser.'   
      Something is brushing against the back of his neck. He leans in further towards his clerk. 'Can you feel them?' He whispers. Mercer doesn't respond. A minute passes. He feels it again. 'Mercer?' His voice is a little more panicked.   
      'Sir?' The response is from the other side of the room. The hand on his wrist his tighter. 'Sir, where are you?'   
      'Mercer?'  
      A voice closer to him says, 'Stay here, sir. They're playing games I think.'   
      'Games?' He whispers it. There's a hand on his face, gloved. He can't remember if Mercer was wearing them or had he lost them or did he give them away. Oh lord he can't remember. He can't remember. His head jerks back, he tries to pull his arm away. There's another muttered curse from Barbossa below.   
      'Sir,' hissed, soft, near him. A hand is on his cheek again. 'I never let go of your wrist, sir. Think about it. I never let go. I never let go.'   
      And suddenly someone is screaming. Beckett thinks it's Norrington and Elizabeth is in hysterics. The door opens. Shadows from the moonlight poor in. Framing them in as if in a scene from Caravaggio. Then movement and a figure breaks the still formation. Norrington is staring at them in horror, there is something wet dripping down his face, his neck, over his hands. He shivers, turns and runs out, down the hall.   
      'He left us! He left us!' Elizabeth's cries turn to a dull wail. 'He left us. He left us.'   
      A match hisses and Mercer is in front of him, the dull flame between them. Beckett thinks, thank God he's alive. Then he sees the blood. The pattered three scratches down his face. Mercer frowns as the match putters out.   
      'You're hurt, sir.'   
      'So are you.'   
      'He left us. He left us.'   
      'Oy, posh toff Beckett, gerrof my fingers.'   
      'He left us. He left us. He left us.'   
      Another hiss and a candle is lit. Governor Swann holds it and looks about the room. Books are shredded, clothes ripped, furniture broken and blood. All he can say is, It's very red in here.   
      'Bloody hell,' Barbossa mutters. Mercer gives a dry coughing laugh. 'How'd they get in?'   
      'The bag, I think.' Mercer whispers. Beckett reaches up and traces a cut that runs from temple to jaw. 'You've the same, sir.'  
      'They sounded like you.' He thought about it. 'Except not.'   
      Barbossa pulls himself up on the remnants of the settee and settles his eyes on the trail left by Norrington. It goes down the hall, bloody footsteps. Then swishes of blood. Something following him. A trail following a trail. 'Right,' he says. 'Who wants to leave cause I am. Right now. Mercer, be useful, let go of your lover-boy and get us out of here.'   
      Mercer nods and looks to the window. 'We're breaking it,' he declares.  
      It takes work. A book breaks a pane. Then another is shattered. Finally the clerk gets impatient and has Beckett help him toss a chair through it. The heavy fire side suede chair. With its lion pawed feet, its high backed wings. It lands in the snow and sinks in, soft, desolate. Outside the sun is rising. Somewhere in the house is a creak, a gasp, a cry, a scream. Mercer looks to Beckett and says, 'right, sir. You're out first.'   
      Elizabeth is brought back to her senses enough to help heave Barbossa out the window and between her, Becket and Mercer they manage to carry him a few meters from the house.   
      'Why didn't we think of that earlier?' She mutters. Hands slipping as she tries to hold the pirate up. 'And James?'   
      No one says a word. Her father gives a little sigh. It was a beautiful house. Such a shame. The house stares back at them. Jutting up, dark a looming from pale, perfect snow. The sun catches in the glass windows. Some have been shaped in their frames to reflect the sun like diamonds. Ionic pillars are graceful, the oak doors inviting. Something tugs at Elizabeth. She looks to the group then to the house.   
      'Should we go back?' Her lips are dry as she licks them. 'We can't just leave James there.'

Silence. Then Barbossa whacks her upside the head.

      'Are ye mad? Ye must be! Come on, let's get to a town.'

 

      They etch their way along the road, a slight depression they can barely make out in the snow. Governor Swann claims he remembers seeing a small village when they first road by. About a mile, he says, beyond this rise.   
      They stagger and stumble, shift and pull and push their way through. After an hour Mercer declares a break and they collapse into the snow. Barbossa is pale, shivering. His eyes have gone listless and he doesn't respond to their questions. Beckett takes a look at his leg and grimaces. He needs a doctor soon or he's going to lose it. Mercer joins his master and takes it a step further. Doesn't matter if he had a doctor right now, sir. He's losing that leg.   
      'I'll be damned,' it was slurred between barely parted lips. Barbossa peaks at them with a half-lidded gaze. 'I'll be damned if I lose this leg...lose it and I'll take up company colours...'   
      It's a brief, easy laugh shared that dies out quickly when the sound of snow crunching can be heard. Elizabeth stands, sword draw. Mercer and Beckett soon follow. They stare out at the snow and Beckett marvels at the whiteness of it. So very white. White and white and white and white. And silent. Silence upon silence upon silence. He remembers Mercer saying that men, in the New World, would go mad with the silence of the northern winters. He had laughed at the time. He can believe it now.   
      He remembers also hearing about creatures that lurked in the snow. That looked like the snow and would possess men's hearts and minds and make them go mad with lust for ice and the cold. They had been just fairy tales at the time but now he understands the superstitions of his fellow Englishmen.   
      'I think it's James,' Elizabeth whispers. Her voice is hopeful, her eyes are wary.   
      The figure approaches slowly, staggering. There's blood behind him. Or it could be their own trail. It's hard to tell. Thank the lord, Beckett thinks, all the wolves of England are dead. Or at least most of the wolves of England are dead. His mind stutters around the thought, eventually it lands on the idea of – at least we're not in France or the German lands.   
      'James?' Elizabeth calls out. The figure stops, looks up, haggard and worn. He smiles and gives a little wave. Relief floods through Elizabeth's shoulders and she charges forward. Becket shrugs, lucky him I guess. Mercer mutters, I'm not sure about this.  
      'If you're mother offered you free pudding on Christmas you wouldn't be sure about it,' Beckett retorts.   
      'Of course not, sir. She probably poisoned it.' Mercer responds to Beckett's glare with a glare. Governor Swann mutters that he's surrounded by children. 'Just seems too convenient is all.'   
      Beckett shrugs, Doesn't matter does it? We'll be back in civilisation soon enough. Away from it all. We can pretend it didn't happen.

 

      It's dusk when they stumble into the small village and find themselves at the only inn/pub in town. Beckett does his best to clean himself up and declares he will be the one doing the speaking. The rest just wait. Somewhere unobtrusive preferably.   
      When he finds the master of the house he gives a cursary explination of what happened. Rose Hall, he says. We were returning from it when we were set upon by cut throats. Got away with our lives, a bit of coin, but not much else. Could you put us up for the night? We can pay.   
      The inn keeper nods, asks to see the coin and declares it good. Ye need some bandages and water too, by the looks of ye, love.   
      'That would be appreciated, thank you.' Another bit of coinage handed over and Mercer approaches, wincing as he walks.   
      'Cuts on my legs,' he explains to Beckett's confused look. 'We'll need some whiskey as well. And a doctor,' he glances back to Barbossa passed out in front of the fire. 'Sooner would be better.'   
      'The doctor's a town over. I'll send a rider out for him but like as not he won't get here till tomorrow.' He pauses in thought. 'We have a horse doctor if that'll do?'  
      Mercer and Beckett exchange looks and shrug. 'We'll take both,' Mercer says. 'Worth a try. His leg needs to go, I think.'   
      The inn keeper nods. Right, he says. I'll get the whiskey. Ye looks as if everyone needs a dram of it. And by the by, what was the manor called again?  
      'Red Rose Hall.' Beckett murmurs. Mercer is pulling him towards the fire.   
      'Where's that? I never heard of it before.'   
      But neither of them heard him and so he shrugged and called to his lad to saddle up. Take some bread and a flask, his father says to the boy. There's a long night ahead of ye. 


	3. The Snow and the Snow and the Quiet Silence of Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, this is where the story went in its own strange, diabolical direction. Here is also where it ends. I hope you enjoyed the ride.

Mercer watches as Sir eagerly strips the wet, bloody clothes off and dumps them in a pile in the middle of the floor. He quickly shivered and pads over to the bed.

            'The night is long and full of terrors,' Sir says as he finally collapses and pulls the covers up. 'I read that somewhere.'

            The clerk shrugs and tries to pull off his boots. They are wet from the snow and slipping in his hands. After a minute his gives up and collapses backwards on the bed, feet dangling off over the edge. 'So tired,' he mumbles. His eyes close and he can feel Sir poking him with his feet through the covers. It's goose feathers in the eiderdown, he numbly thinks. Goose feathers.

            'At least take your clothes off,' Sir grumbles. 'You're wet and cold and I don't want to be wet and cold. If you leave them on sleep somewhere else.' He huffs and burrows himself deeper into the blankets. Mercer waits a minute, gathers strength, then pushes himself back up. He gives his boots another tug then realises he forgot to unlace them. A sheepish look to Sir but his eyes are closed.

 

            Beckett wakes and it's dark in the room. And cold. The fire has burned low and Mercer is awake, standing at the window wearing only breeches. His shirt is damp and hanging over a chair.

            'What're you doing?' Beckett mumbles as he tugs the blankets closer and moves over to where Mercer had been sleeping. The bed is cold. He shifts back to his original spot. Now that bit is cold too. He huffs. 'Mercer?'

            'Watching the snow, sir.'

            'Why?'

            'Because there's something out there.' He leans against the edge of the window, out of sight for anyone looking in. The lord frowns and sits up, making sure to keep blankets around him. 'Moving between the trees and the village.'

            'Following us?'

            The older man shrugs. Who knows. Maybe it came with us from the Caribbean. Maybe it's been here always. Maybe the Admiral's family brought it with them. His father was a general in the army in India. If you want dark things that haunt the night...

            'I woke up about an hour ago,' he explains in the wake of Beckett's silence. 'I swear something was at the window watching us. But I only caught a glimpse. Corner of the eye.'

            'What did it look like?'

            And oh the room is still. So very still. Beckett feels that if he moves he'll break some protective spell. He'll draw attention and they both would die. So he sits and doesn't move, barely breaths, feels his toes and fingers going numb. Mercer is in profile and looking as hawkish and evil as ever.

            'You know,' Beckett murmurs. 'You really do look the part of a murderer.' His clerk smirks. He says, Thank you, sir. It's something I've been trying to attain for all fifty odd years of my life. And I don't know what it looked like. I want to say white and I want to say black. Maybe steel blue. It was a sensation more than a look.

            'They know you're up,' Beckett says. 'Come back to bed. It's cold and you're my portable heat source, remember?'

            When Mercer finally climbs back under the covers his skin is chilled and his breath comes out in small bursts of cloud. The fire is dead, the candle beside their bed run well and done. Beckett pulls the covers over their heads and they huddle in the dark and grin and feel like fifteen year olds. Mercer says in a whisper, Pulling the covers so you can't see them doesn't mean they can't see you, sir. Beckett laughs, burrows himself against his clerk once he's warmed up, and replies, Stop ruining my childhood myths.

 

            The next morning sees a fine, thin snow drifting down soft and gentle. Elizabeth says that this is a relief after the hard, torrid storms they've been having. Silence greats her but she takes it as consent. Breakfast is a thick gruel with a bit of honey on top. Governor Swann sighs, Ah, bless the inn keeper's wife, and licks the honey spoon. Mercer pokes his meal and mutters that he's not sure he trusts food at the moment. Considering. Everyone stops eating.

            'Thank you for that.' Beckett growls, shoving his bowl away. 'Though I take consolation in the fact that I didn't eat the blood pudding.' Mercer glowers. Tasted fine, he grumbled. 'You can add possible cannibalism to your list of sins.'

            'Not the worst, I grant you, sir.'

            Elizabeth coughs. 'Then what's your worst?'

            Mercer smiles, 'not one I'm about to tell you.' He reaches down and pulls up a flask from his boot. 'Now, we need to meet these doctors and see to the pirate. I'm assuming we want him alive?'

 

When they find him the innkeeper looks sheepish and apologises before they ask. He says he sent his lad out but the doctor was several towns over attending to a difficult pregnancy. Midwives apparently aren't to be trusted.

            'We're sorry but there's nothing to be done.' He says. They all glance over to the pirate who continues to sleep near the fire. His leg is swollen and looks wrong, a monstrous growth. Beckett is reminded of a fungus that once grew on the oak trees near his home when he was a boy. He would cut them off with a toy sword till his father told him to stop. It makes them worse, his father had said. If you cut them open. They spread faster.

From Barbossa’s leg drips blood, thick and dark and gathering in a small pool on the floor. Elizabeth is frantic, she says, We have to save him.

            ‘He’ll lose the leg,’ her father replies. ‘And no one here can do it.’

            Beckett nudges Mercer, You amputated someone’s leg once, right? Mercer glowers, He died, sir. Not the odds we’re looking forward. Is there a local horse doctor?

            ‘There’s Jimmy.’ The innkeeper frowns. ‘’Spose we could give it a try. Lad,’ he turns to his son. ‘Go out and bring back Jimmy. Tell ‘im we ‘ave an amputee but he’s human. Off you go, lad.’

            An hour later, once breakfast settles Beckett orders a bottle of Scotch, whatever the house has, and pulls Mercer to a table near Barbossa. Mercer grins at the bottle and says that he and Sir are doing horrible things to their bodies and Beckett snorts and says that he doesn’t much care at the moment. He glances to Barbossa,‘Think he’ll live?’

            ‘Don’t know, sir.’ Mercer takes the bottle from Beckett, opens, and sniffs it. He makes a face. ‘You won’t want this, sir. I’ll have to –‘

            Beckett steals the bottle back with a glare, ‘I’ll have my half, thank you Mr Mercer.’ He pours himself a glass, sips, coughs, and ignores Mercer’s amusement. He mutters that it could strip the lining right out of his stomach. In retaliation his clerk snatches the bottle and says that he  _told_ sir, but sir didn’t listen now’a did he? He pours them both a glass. They drink them, wincing. He pours them another.

            ‘Mercer?’

            ‘Sir?’

            ‘Have we been at all sober in the last few days?’

            Mercer thinks about it. Drinks more scotch. Shakes his head and grins a feral cat grin. Beckett decides he likes it. The feral cat grin. It reminds him of something he can’t think of at the moment. But it’s dark and lecherous and smells of cheap London gin.

            Governor Swann joins them at the table with a pint of ale. ‘Don’t like this,’ he says. ‘Something wrong with the feeling here.’

            Mercer shrugs, Small villages in winter can be weird. Especially when foreigners show up. Tend to be uppity about that.

            ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ Beckett adds. ‘We’re paying for everything and moving on as soon as we can.’   

            ‘Could hang us,’ Mercer mutters darkly and pulls out a deck of cards. ‘Cards, sir?’

            Beckett tutts testily, ‘Not everywhere is that god forsaken village in the colonies.’

 

            The days eases into itself quietly. Elizabeth keeps vigil near Barbossa along with her father. Mercer and Beckett investigate the bottom of the scotch bottle and are contemplating wine when Mercer suddenly announces that Norrington’s still absent and he doesn’t trust the bugger so he’s going looking. He staggers up then glares at the scotch bottle, managing to look personally affronted by the object. Beckett looks depressed but sighs and stands.

            ‘I’ll come with you.’

            The older man meanders towards the stairs and Beckett shuffles along after him, bumping into one or two chairs on his way. He declares, as he watches his clerk go up the stairs, that By Jove, Mercer, You’ll Be The Death Of Me.

            The hall is long and thin and Mercer traces the wall with his fingers as they walk along till he finds a doorknob. He fiddles with it till it opens to an empty room. The curtains were peeled back and the window was white with snow and blinding sun. The light seeps into the hall and Beckett swears he sees something move towards the back. Mercer goes to close the door but his lord stops him, shakes his head. No, no, wait. Leave it open. They move to the next, open, empty. Blinds closed. Beckett strides in and pulls them open revealing snow and snow and snow and sun and a lone tree.

            ‘Could have sworn there were more houses around us last night.’ He mutters as he re-joins Mercer who is standing in their room looking concerned.

            ‘Someone’s been in here. The bed’s made wrong.’

            ‘The innkeeper’s wife?’ He pauses. Frowns. Realises they’ve never seen a wife or any other staff other than the man and his son. ‘And how do you know it’s made wrong?’

            ‘I made it this morning, sir. After you went down for breakfast. I turn the sheets differently.’

            They’re standing in the doorway with the light of the room before and the dark of the hall behind. Beckett shivers, takes Mercer’s arms, says We should go back. Norrington’s not up here. Something was shifting at the corner of his eye but when he looks it’s gone. He pulls Mercer’s arm again. Let’s go.

            They come downstairs to find a wiry, grey man laying out saws near Barbossa who is stretched out on one of the tables.

            ‘When I was a lad I dreamt of a green fairy.’ Barbossa said when he saw the two men enter. He grins, eyes disjointed and blood shot. ‘It was in a box. Like,’ he waves his hand feebly. ‘Like I am now. A glass box. Because, because ah wanted tah be that. Ye know. That free thing on the outside of the box. Was a wossname.’ He shudders, ‘and now’s it’s dark. Fuck me.’ He slips back into something like sleep. The grey man, Jimmy, sighs. Blood loss. They all know and nod.

            Mercer bars the front door and tells Elizabeth to watch the stair case door. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he says when she asks. She nods, doesn’t ask what. Beckett and Governor Swann are ordered to hold Barbossa down as Jimmy saws. The lad is mopping up bed and his father making sure the pirate gets one last dram of whiskey. ‘For good luck, love.’ He explains to Elizabeth’s look.

            The sun is setting when the doctor begins. Barbossa screams, somewhere outside, something else screams. They are silent but for the blood on the floor, the saw cutting sinew and bone, the screams, and the ticking mantel clock.

 

            By the time Jimmy finished and binds Barbossa’s leg Mercer and Elizabeth have dozed off, resting against their respective doors. The sound of washing up wakes them and they look about, half awake, dazed. The clock reads two in the morning and Beckett looks pale, ill. He sits down and the innkeeper puts a pint in front of him. He says, you did well, son. Not an easy job. Elizabeth sags down to the floor, burying her face into knees and arms. They rest. They doze. They drink. An hour passes. Two. Barbossa slumbers.

            Beckett wakes to a hand on his shoulder and Mercer motions – Quiet, sir. The room is dark, biting. The main fireplace is out and Barbossa is shivering in blood and sweat. Mercer moves to put a blanket on him then motions to the front door. Beckett looks and sees darkness. Then, there, just there, is darkness within the dark. A shadow against the night. The lord stands, fingers going for one of the doctor’s saws as he continues to watch the door. Mercer moves about waking people, quietly, quietly. He wakes the lad who begins to wail and is then promptly knocked out. Beckett gives him a Look and Mercer mouths, ‘I hate children’.

            The room sinks deeper into the frigid night air, breaths are ragged and giving off puffs of air. Frost clings to windows and outside it snows. Elizabeth reaches for a fire poker. There is a knocking on the door. Short, sharp.

            ‘Miss Swann?’ Norrington’s voice drifts through the wood. She freezes then lowers the poker. ‘Miss Swann, someone, it’s rather cold out.’

            Barbossa makes a gurgling sound, shifts, sleeps on. Mercer shakes his head as Elizabeth begins to move to the door. They wait in silence. Beckett sees the shadow against the shadows move away. Then the door shakes, thumps against the frame. Nothing for a second. Then a second shudder as something slammed against the wood. The innkeeper looks grim and picks up a small hand axe.

            The door cracks at the fourth shaking, the fourth slamming, rocking. It cracks and the room becomes even darker. No moon shining off crisp snow. No looming of the forest. No dull embers in the hearth. Darkness. Hairs standing on end and Beckett feels the too familiar breath on the back of his neck. He shivers, turns, nothing. Then again. And again. Something around him but nothing. He hears Elizabeth scream. Governor Swann cry out, ‘Elizabeth? Elizabeth? Are you? Where are you?’ No response.

            Something grabs him, slams him forward over the table, wrenching his arm back, out of the socket, and he can hear someone screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming. Then it stops and his arm is limp at his side. He wants to feel it, to feel the sharp, excruciating pain of heat and bone through flesh, and the warmth of blood on cold skin. He wants to feel it but instead is only aware of Mercer pulling him somewhere. The darkness seems darker. Governor Swann yells. The innkeeper curses. Mercer is holding him tight, close, careful about the injured shoulder.

            Beckett asks, ‘how did you know which side it was?’

            Mercer replies, ‘I checked.’

            Somewhere someone says ‘Oh bloody Jesus and his cousin the Baptist, fuck me.’

            And Beckett can only laugh.

 

            At some point someone lights a candle. They find Barbossa on the floor. The doctor huddled in the corner with the boy, still unconscious. The innkeeper looks grim, Beckett pale and in pain, Mercer murderous. Governor Swann is holding Elizabeth and Norrington is huddled in the corner. Elizabeth is the first to see him and she pulls from her father’s arms.

            ‘James,’ she whispers and she approaches him slowly, one hand palm up and out, the other holding the poker. ‘James, it’s me, Elizabeth.’ His eyes are squeezed shut, she touches his hand. The room begins to chill. Top down cold. ‘James? It’s all right, you’re safe now.’

            Underneath tangled hair Norrington smiles, eyes still shut. His head jerks to the side, an unnatural control over the motion. He coughs, hacking and deep chested, and continues to smile. Elizabeth can see her breath. The candles are flickering. Suddenly it goes dark again and someone is laughing. A coughing, hacking, laugh. Uncontrolled. Mercer sets Beckett down in a chair and tries to find the other side of the room when something grabs him, feet out from under and he lands on his back. There’s a pain through his abdomen and he is dragged up then back down and nothing.

            In front of her Elizabeth can see the dark shape of Norrington, still huddled in the corner but fingers moving, dancing in the night. She wants to cry. She wants to scream. She wants to make it all go away. I know him, she thinks. I know this man. I grew up with him. I know him, this isn’t him. But, it might be. She thinks, What if I can save him? Behind her someone is crying. She notes, distantly, that it’s Beckett and Odd, she thinks. I didn’t think he could cry. In front of her Norrington is laughing and smiling and waving his hands around, his fingers plucking at invisible strings in the air. When the boy begins to scream she can’t stop herself. Her hand plunges forward and Norrington stops, mid giggle, with fire poker jammed up into his lungs. He coughs. The candles flicker back. The light from the moon sneaks in through fogged windows. He coughs again. There’s a bit of blood down his chin. She can smell his death. She thinks, I never want to be this close to a dying man again. Norrington looks at her, eyes unfocused, uncertain. He whispers, Elizabeth? His fingers are lose around the poker, staining themselves red. There is more blood on his lips, his chin, thin strings of it slipping from his mouth. He’s pissed himself. She thinks, Isn’t that natural? She wants to ask some who would know but all she can see of Mercer is closed eyes, uncurled hand, Beckett’s back as he kneels next to his clerk. She notices that there is a lot of blood. She doesn’t think why. Her father stands listlessly in the middle of the room. He’s staring at nothing and eventually slowly sits himself down. He continues to stare at nothing.

            After a long moment and Norrington’s eyes are closed, his body still, she slowlystands. ‘We should bury him.’ She says to the room, to the floor, her feet, Norrington’s bowed head.

            ‘Burn him,’ Beckett whispers. His back is still to her. ‘Just in case.’

            Silence is the consent and as the sun rose they filed out to clean, crisp snow. By the barn they build a small pyre. They heap on straw and the smoke smells of clover before they lay the body on it. Beckett holds his arm to his side and looks listlessly ahead. Elizabeth tries to not stare at the bone jutting out from his flesh. If it was clean it would all be so pale white. The white bone, the white skin, the white snow, the white everything.

            Above them the sun glimmers, gentle and soft, in the winter sky. The forest is dark and behind the village. Standing tall, cold, black and dead. Someone asks, What do we tell everyone? Beckett blinks, registers the voice but not the name. He shakes his head, ‘Don’t know.’

            Eventually they returned to the house. To the bloody floor and the shaking doctor. To the unconscious pirate, the almost dead clerk. Beckett sits down next to Mercer as Jimmy tends to his arm. He asks, ‘is there anything?’

            ‘His stomach was,’ the doctor doesn’t finish the sentence.

            They all sit in silence. And outside it grows cold. When Beckett is stitched and bandaged he wanders outside to stare at the encroaching leaves and branches. Inside the doctor is doing his best for a man who is almost not a man anymore. Beckett breathes out, he can see his breath, it’s a burst of fog then nothing. It’s cold, even with the sun, even with his coat and a blanket pulled around him. He thinks, I wish I had never heard of Davy Jones. I wish I had never heard of Jamaica, of Tortuga, of the Pearl, of chests of Aztec gold and ancient love letters. He knows night will fall and whatever they are may come for them again. It may snow again, he knows. And if it does it will be cold, it will be silent, it will be thick and deep and beautifully pure white and in it they will all sleep.


End file.
